


so heavy i fell through the earth

by hunnybabez



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Crime Thriller, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Panic Attacks, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Self-Destruction, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25797769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunnybabez/pseuds/hunnybabez
Summary: It’s been almost a year since the revolution.All things considered, Connor is one of the lucky ones. He has a job at the DPD, doing what he’s always done: investigating androids with Lieutenant Anderson. He’s got somewhere to live, too, thanks to Hank. This is more than he can say for most androids living in Detroit, even at the so-called ‘epicenter of change’ for android rights.There are other reasons Connor is lucky, too. This one in particular stares him down with an open face, and he does meanopen.
Relationships: Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 21
Kudos: 68





	1. genesis

**Author's Note:**

> title from [ this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iH0kfH04U68) by grimes.

It’s been almost a year since the revolution.

All things considered, Connor is one of the lucky ones. He has a job at the DPD, doing what he’s always done: investigating androids with Lieutenant Anderson. Granted, he doesn’t exactly hunt for deviants anymore, but otherwise, not a lot has changed. The biggest difference is that now he’s paid, which is nice, even though he doesn’t really need it (it’s an excuse he uses to justify why he’s paid so much less than his partner, even though they do the same job). He’s got somewhere to live, too, thanks to Hank. This is more than he can say for most androids living in Detroit, even at the so-called ‘epicenter of change’ for android rights.

There are other reasons Connor is lucky, too. This one in particular stares him down with an open face, and he does mean _open_. 

They’d gotten the call ten minutes ago, beckoning them to the alleyway where the corpse of an android slumps up against a brick wall. The victim is unrecognizable, its ― _their,_ Connor reminds himself ― face is beaten in, obviously with some kind of blunt object. 

“Oh, Jesus…” Lieutenant Anderson proclaims, wincing at the sight. Even Connor feels light-headed, something he could not comprehend feeling a year ago. He can barely comprehend it now ― his reactions continue to surprise and bewilder him. 

Connor averts his eyes from the body, immediately falling on the wall behind it. “NO ANDROIDS IN DETROIT” is spray-painted, far too perfect for a human to have written it. A quick scan tells him that the font is Arial Bold. 

“That’s odd.” 

“What?” Hank asks, looking at him.

“This was written by an android, but it is clearly anti-android sentiment.” 

“Someone’s obviously confused.” 

“Who is?” Connor blinks at Lieutenant Anderson.

Hank rolls his eyes. “The culprit, dumbass.” He sighs. “You, uh… you look at the body. I’ll look around for prints.” 

Connor nods at Hank, though he doubts he’ll find any, if the culprit really is an android. He kneels to get a closer look at the corpse. Connor can’t identify the model by sight, like he’d usually be able to. With only a little bit of hesitation, he swipes two fingers into the thirium staining the android’s artificial, destroyed flesh. When he presses his fingers against the tip of his tongue, his vision is flooded with information.

_Model: VS400. A male-presenting model designed for waiting tables._

_Registered to Damien Brown, age 48._

_Analyzing “Damien Brown, 48’..._

_Damien Brown, 48_

_Owner of San Morello’s_

_Analyzing 'San Morello’s’..._

_San Morello’s_

_An italian restaurant in downtown Detroit_

_No last known address,_ Connor sighs. Android homelessness is all too common; they'll have to check in with the human the android is registered under. It probably won’t lead anywhere; most androids deviated during the revolution, and haven’t had recent contact with the humans who bought them. Still, it never hurts to check. For now, he files it away in a folder for the investigation. 

Within ten minutes, he thoroughly analyzes the body. The cause of death is obviously blunt force trauma, but when he looks a little closer, he discovers a couple of splinters sticking out of the artificial flesh. _The weapon was a baseball bat,_ Connor quickly deducts. He realizes the position the android is in is odd ― he’s slumped over, but his knees are bent at an odd angle and his arms are behind his back. 

Rather than become limp like a dying human, sometimes a dying android will remain in the same position they died in. Connor thinks about how Daniel looked with the bullet-hole in his head, on his knees, the same expression he died with.

Connor moves the victim’s arms and discovers small cracks on his wrists, and quickly pieces together that someone must have held his hands behind his back as somebody else swung on his face. Judging by the position of his legs, he must have been thrashing. 

_He must have been ambushed_ , Connor realizes.

“No prints, no hair, nothing.” Lieutenant Anderson approaches him, hands in the pocket of his coat. “I think you were right. This had to have been an android.” 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Connor says, standing. “Why would an android preach their own destruction?” 

“I don’t know, kid, I’m drawing a blank.” 

Sighing, the RK800 stands with his hands tucked in his pockets. “We’ll have to put in a request for the security footage around the area. Until then, all we can do is talk to their owner.” 

“Probably hasn’t been their owner in a year, though.” Hank says. He's right. The more time passes, the less likely it is to get any sort of substantial evidence from the person an android used to be registered to.

“I know, but for now, it’s all we have.”

Lieutenant Anderson groans. “Shit, Connor, when’s the last time that’s led anywhere?” 

“Are you suggesting we be less thorough than possible with our investigation, Lieutenant?” 

“Fucks sake,” Hank mumbles under his breath. “Okay, you’ve got me. Let’s get going.”

* * *

The restaurant is nice, for what it’s worth. It’s busy, too, and the smell of italian food inside is undeniably pleasant. 

“It smells good.” Connor remarks.

Hank looks surprised. “You can smell?” 

“Yes, all androids can. I suppose it’s meant to detect threats for humans, such as chemical leaks.”

“Must suck, being able to smell and not being able to eat.”

“Thank you for reminding me.” Connor’s eyebrow twinges in annoyance.

“I’m just giving you shit, calm down.” Hank and Connor approach the host station, where a young man stands. 

“Hi, table for two?” He’s tall, with dark skin, dark eyes, and dark curly hair. Unrelated to the investigation, Connor privately notes that he’s attractive. 

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson and Detective Connor,” Reflexively, Connor takes out his badge and shows the young-man at the same time Hank does. “Is your boss here?”

 _Zach_ , Connor notes by his name tag, immediately straightens his back. The RK800’s eyes dart to his toned arms, and quickly back up. “Who, Damien?” 

“He’s not in trouble, we just have some questions about an android that used to work here.” Connor says, with a reassuring smile. It’s oddly gentle for him — not that he’s necessarily harsh usually, but still, the action is abnormal enough for Hank to give the RK800 a look. He can see it in his peripheral vision.

“Oh, uh, okay. I’ll go get him, one second.” With that, Zach leaves the host station and turns a corner.

Hank is still looking at Connor. He pretends not to notice it, until:

“He was a pretty good looking guy, huh?”

Connor stays stoic, looking straight ahead. “Objectively, yes, you could say he is attractive.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks Hank is squinting at him. Really, Hank is about to open his mouth and say something embarrassing — but Damien has already turned the corner. He’s shorter than the both of them, and just about Hank’s size, with tan skin and a dark beard. 

“Mr. Brown?” Connor immediately addresses him. “I’m Detective Connor and this is Lieutenant Anderson. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, sure,” Damien says as he wipes his hands on a dish towel. His sleeves are wet — he must have been washing dishes. “Zach told me this is about an android?”

“Did you ever have a VS400 working for you?”

“I bought one a few years ago to wait tables.” 

“And when’s the last time you saw him?” Lieutenant Anderson pipes up. 

“Guess.” Sighing, Damien shoves the dish towel in the pocket of his apron. “ _It_ fucked off the same time the rest of them did.”

Connor’s LED flashes yellow at the way the man says ‘it’, but like always, he doesn’t say anything. Sure enough, Hank notices the change. Pretending not to notice, Connor nods.“So, you haven’t seen him in about a year.”

“That’s about right.” Damien sighs. “Are we done here? I have a staff to manage, you know. A _human_ staff,” he enunciates, giving Connor a pointed glare. 

“Fucks that supposed to mean?” Hank steps forward, ever defensive of his partner. Connor can’t say he doesn’t appreciate it, but in his experience, it doesn’t really get him anywhere to fight back. “Lieutenant. We should get going.” he says, putting a hand on Hank’s shoulder.

“I think that’d be best,” Damien says, glaring down the two of them. Hank glares back, but otherwise, turns around. 

“Come on, Connor.” he says, marching out of the establishment. Sheepishly, Connor follows behind him.

* * *

The second Hank closes the car door, he exclaims, “God, what a fucking prick, am I right?”

“You say that about everyone.” 

Hank gives Connor a pointed look. “What, I’m not allowed to defend you?”

“I don’t know why you would.” 

At that, Hank’s expression seems to fall a bit. He still looks annoyed, but there’s compassion in his eyes. “You can’t say that shit doesn’t bother you.”

He’s right. It _does_ bother Connor, but what is he supposed to do? If he fights back, if he snaps, he’ll just be seen as violent and ungrateful. If he doesn’t, at least he’ll be somewhat respected. Not to mention he's never been very good at standing up for himself, except for maybe the occasional retort to Gavin. 

“I didn’t say that,” Connor says softly. He wants to say something else, but now, he’s at a loss.

Hank looks at him for another few moments, but then he just sighs, starts the car, and heads in the direction of the station.

“...so, Zach, huh?” 

“ _Lieutenant._ ”

* * *

They arrive home together a little more than an hour later. Immediately, Hank shrugs off his jacket, shoes, and goes to the kitchen. Connor doesn’t have to follow him to know he’s grabbing a beer. 

They both have their own routines: Connor’s is to first greet Sumo, who pads up to him eagerly. 

“Hello, Sumo. It is good to see you.” He smiles, kneeling down and scratching his friend behind the ears, just how he likes.

Exactly one minute and thirty three seconds pass. Connor rises to take off his own jacket and shoes before straightening Hank’s and tucking both of their shoes in the corner beside the door so as to eliminate the risk of Hank tripping on them. 

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Anderson emerges from the kitchen with a beer and slump on the couch, turning on the TV. Connor takes a few steps toward the kitchen, and right on time, Hank says:

“You don’t have to cook for me, Connor. I can take care of myself.” 

“I like cooking, Lieutenant.”

“Kid, I told you―” _to call me Hank._ Connor knows he prefers his first name, especially at home, but even a year later, Connor still has trouble with it.

“I know. Sorry, Hank.” Connor calls from the kitchen. He opens the fridge ― seeing it nearly empty, he makes a note to order groceries. For now, though, making dinner for Hank is his priority. There's some old spaghetti sauce that’s almost expired but still edible, and if Connor remembers correctly, there should be some noodles in the cupboard. He grabs a pot and fills it with water, sets it on the stove, and turns it on. 

He’s in the middle of grabbing the noodles when none other than Markus, the deviant leader himself, opens a connection with him. By this point, it’s not completely odd. Connor doesn’t really know if they’re friends ― but Connor doesn’t really know what ‘friends’ are, what it means to have them. If he had to give his best guess, he supposes that he could call him and Markus friends. He enjoys talking to him, and they catch up every few weeks. Still, he wouldn’t call them friends in front of Markus. He doesn’t want to be presumptuous. 

_Hi, Connor. How are you?_

Connor pulls out a smaller pot for the sauce and sets it on the stove.

_I’m alright. I’m making dinner for Lieutenant Anderson right now._

_Sorry, am I interrupting?_

_No, not at all._ Connor empties the can of spaghetti sauce into the pot, and then reaches into the cupboard for noodles. There’s just enough for a serving. _How have you been?_

 _Busy._ Connor can practically hear his exasperated tone. He smiles, knowing that whatever Markus is up to, it’s good.

 _I expected as much._ He sets the box of noodles down and leans against the counter, waiting for the water to start boiling. _What is it this time?_

_Right now, it’s rights for android workers._

Connor nods, as if Markus was actually here. _That’s good. You know, I’m one of the lucky ones, and even I’m paid far less than Lieutenant Anderson._ He pauses. _But you didn’t hear that from me._

_My lips are sealed._

Connor smiles again. It’s been awhile since he’s talked to someone besides Hank; and Markus is just so easy to talk to. It’s nice.

Another message comes in from Markus. _Actually, that reminds me. Are you free tomorrow?_

Markus wants to see him? _After 5, yes._ Connor finds himself wishing there was a coin in his hand. _Why?_

_Would you mind coming to New Jericho after work? I want to catch up._

Connor’s thirium pump beats harsh in his chest. _You want to catch up?_

_Well, I have to ask you something, too, but it’s best if we meet in person._

He grins. _I knew you had ulterior motives._

When a few seconds pass without a response, Connor panics. _That was a joke. I’d be happy to stop by._

Immediately, Markus responds. _Okay. I’ll see you then._

_Okay. See you then._

Connor doesn’t move from his position against the counter for a while. For a moment, he just stands there, processing the conversation. Slowly, a small smile creeps it’s way into his face. It’s not completely out of the ordinary, talking to Markus so casually — they catch up every once and awhile, and they’ve even hung out a few times over the last year. But considering how busy Connor is, on top of Markus being at the forefront of the fight for android rights, visits have been far and few in between. The few times they’ve seen eachother in the past year have been quick, but pleasant nonetheless.

He sighs and lets his eyes drift shut, even if just for a moment. Connor doesn’t really understand why Markus would want to talk to him, nevertheless in such a casual, friendly way. He doesn’t deserve it, considering everything he’s done; but that’s okay. It’s nice to forget about what he’s done, every once in awhile, to let himself believe it’s okay that Markus trusts him. 

Connor is jerked back to reality when his eyes flutter open and he looks at the stove, pot nearly boiling over.

“Shit,” he says to himself, as he quickly reaches for the knob to turn the heat off. 

_I forgot to set a timer. How did I forget to set a timer?_ Connor’s LED blinks red as he suddenly feels… inferior. _Is this shame?_ Maybe he should be proud, making a mistake that is so utterly _human._ And yet, when Connor became deviant, he did not rid himself of the notion that he must be _perfect_ in calculation. 

He stares down at the boiling pot of noodles. A quick visual analysis tells him that they are ready, if not a little overdone. Hastily, to make up for his incompetence, he grabs a strainer and strains the noodles.

_Why am I shaking?_

_Diagnostic running…_

_WARNING: Systems Overheating_

_Stress Level:_ ^ _67%_

“Shit.” Connor doesn’t stop moving, even though his stress levels are running dangerously high. He’s fine. _I’m fine,_ he tells himself, no, demands it of himself. From the cupboard, he grabs a bowl, and on his way to the oven —

— he drops it. 

The glass shatters at his feet, the noise alone making him jump back a few steps. He stumbles, an imperfect action, and trips on nothing but his own shock. White ceramic shards contrast against Hank’s off-white kitchen floor, yellowed over the years. 

Even though he doesn’t need to breathe, he finds himself hyperventilating. 

_Stress Level:_ ^ _75%_

“Kid, are you okay?” Hank, followed by Sumo, zips around the corner, met with the pitiful sight of a confused, malfunctioning android. It only adds to his embarrassment. “Connor?”

“I… it appears that I have malfunctioned,” his voice, though he tries to steady it, comes out shaky and distressed. Sumo whimpers, nudging Connor’s arm with his nose, but the RK800 barely registers it. “I apologize, Lieutenant. I’ll clean it up immediately.” He moves to get up, but Hank stops him with two hands on his shoulders.

“Connor, just tell me what happened.”

“I, I, I… I forgot to set a timer, and then — I don’t know what happened, it just slipped out of my hands… I _failed_. _”_

Hank looks incredulous. ”Kid, you dropped a bowl. It happens.” 

“It shouldn’t have.” He averts his eyes away from the shards of ceramic, to Hank. “Not to me.”

_Stress Level: ^ 81%_

Hank looks down for a moment, and then back to Connor. “Oh, god, uh… listen, you made a mistake. Accidents happen. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal, Lieutenant?” He laughs. “My programming failed me.”

“Connor.”

“I _miscalculated.”_

“Connor!”

“I’m not supposed to fail!”

“Connor, look at me!” Hank moves his hands from his shoulders to cup his cheeks. It’s tender, but also grounding, so much so that Connor feels compelled to look at Hank. 

“Listen to me. You are more than just your programming. Do you understand?”

“I… I…”

“You’re not a machine. You’re a _person._ You’re allowed to fuck up. That’s what people do.”

“I… I don’t...”

“ _Shit._ ” Hank mumbles under his breath, shutting his eyes for a moment. He removes his hands from their place on Connor’s head, rubbing his face for a moment. Connor can’t tell if he’s frustrated or just stressed; probably both. 

“Connor, can you take some deep breaths for me?”

“I don’t need to breathe, Lieutenant. I am merely… trying to cool down my systems,” despite it all, he speaks as though he is out of breath, and his shoulders heave violently up and down.

“Kid, just try it.” Connor blinks at him, bewildered. “ _Please._ ” At Hank’s insistence, he nods quickly, trying to manually slow his simulated breathing. 

_Stress Level:_ v _70%_

“M… My stress levels are falling,” Connor speaks, in a whisper. Reality is slowly settling in on him ― he realizes that Sumo has burrowed in between Connor’s arms to lay his head on the android’s lap.

“Good. Just, keep taking deep breaths, okay?”

“Okay…” 

The two of them sit there on the floor together for what feels like an hour. Slowly, Connor gains control of his breathing again.

_Diagnostic running…_

_System Temperature Optimal_

_Stress Level:_ v _58%_

“You feeling okay?” Hank asks. Connor looks up at him, and for the first time, he sees the sheer concern in his eyes. Hank is _worried_ about him. It’s a strange feeling, having people care about you when it’s been drilled into you that you mean nothing; you are nothing; you are a machine.

“...I think so. My systems aren’t overheating anymore.”

“Okay, that’s good. Can you stand up?”

Connor becomes increasingly aware of his place on the floor, and quickly scrambles up. Hank follows suit, albeit a bit slower due to his age.

“Why don’t you go lay down in my bed for awhile,” Hank says. “I’ll take the couch tonight.” Connor looks at him, confused.

“You know comfort doesn’t mean anything to me. I could go into stasis in a closet and I would be fine.” As Hank opens his mouth to speak, Connor interrupts him. “And what about the mess? I haven’t even served you dinner yet―“

“ _Connor._ ” Hank sets a stern hand down on his shoulder. “I‘ll take care of everything, just go lie down.”

The android in question blinks slowly at him, and nods. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

“It’s Hank, kid. Just Hank.” he gives Connor’s shoulder a little pat before stepping aside. When Connor doesn’t move, he rolls his eyes a little bit and gestures for him to move.

“Oh, right.” Connor says before sheepishly walking off to Hank’s room. Diligently, Sumo trails behind him.

It’s not that he had lied, he does feel better. But it's a weird sensation; he feels light, like he's floating through Hank’s house rather than walking. He doesn’t have to run a diagnostic to know that the panic has worn him out.

He finds himself in Hank’s room. Though he’s here every morning to wake Hank up and sometimes at night when Hank’s too drunk to reach his bed, he’s never once laid in the man’s bed. Like he’d said to Lieutenant Anderson, comfort does not affect him. If he goes into stasis standing up or on the couch, he will not wake up with a sore back and an ache in his shoulders. However, as he more or less collapses on the man’s bed, he can tell why humans prefer to sleep on them. The blanket is soft on his artificial skin as he pulls it over his shoulders. Sumo leaps onto the bed with ease, curling up next to the android. Connor’s body sinks into the mattress, and as he rests his hand on Sumo’s head, he thinks he understands what ‘comfortable’ means. 

For a few moments, he lays there with his eyes open, processing. His LED is no longer an angry red; instead, it stays an unsure yellow. He feels a little bit like he did the ride back to the station after Markus’s friend Simon had shot himself while interfacing with Connor; empty and afraid.

His heart pangs with remembrance. Feeling Simon die is something that has stuck with him, something that haunts him at night when he is alone with himself. The guilt plagues him, even after Simon was brought back by North, Josh, and Markus. 

(Connor had told Markus about how he found Jericho, told him that there was a chance that he could get his friend back while Jericho was in mourning for one of their leaders. He helped them get the body from the DPD, but other than that, he wasn’t involved. Though he wanted to help, and would have, he knew it wasn’t his place.)

Albeit Simon technically died by his own hand, Connor has not forgiven himself for his death; and he certainly has not forgiven himself for putting him back together only to use his friend’s voice to get something Connor didn’t even want. 

The android turns from his side to his back, staring up at Hank’s blank ceiling. This is another reason he doesn’t understand why Markus trusts him. When Connor had told him about what he’d done, he’d been shaken; but like everything, Markus said that it was in the past, and that Connor had made up for it by helping them get Simon back and infiltrating Cyberlife for Jericho. Although, he supposes this does not guarantee Markus’s forgiveness; but can you really trust someone without forgiving them? Connor doesn’t know. 

Slowly, Connor lets his eyes drift shut. There are a lot of things about himself he doesn’t understand, and even more things about others that he can’t even begin to comprehend. Though his model was designed for investigation and interrogation, Connor doubts he can find the answers to his questions so easily.

 _Maybe this is what being human is,_ he thinks, before drifting off into stasis listening to Sumo’s breathing and the sound of the TV in the other room. 


	2. darkseid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They still don’t see us as people, Markus.” He half-whispers. “I try not to let it get to me, but it’s hard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait on this one! i hope the super long chapter makes up for it!  
> chapter name comes from the song darkseid by grimes!

**_REBOOTING…_ **

_Diagnostic running…_

_Systems Optimal_

_Checking for updates…_

_Software up to date_

It’s 6:02 in the morning. Connor slowly opens his eyes, vision blurry as his optic sensors adjust to the bright room. In bold, white letters, the directive _‘GET READY FOR WORK’_ appears in front of him. Usually, Connor would shoot up and get dressed, not wasting any time ― but today feels different. The world is slower than usual. It’s not bad, per se, but it’s definitely something Connor isn’t used to. Everything feels a little less important, like he could just stay in bed all day. He feels at peace. 

Now that his eyes have adjusted, he can see the light filtering in through Hank’s plastic curtains, making a rectangular pattern on the bed. Connor crosses his arms underneath his head, wrist brushing against Sumo’s still-sleeping form. 

He’ll get up soon. But right now, his head feels as clear as it did when he finally broke out of his programming, those few seconds where the only thing in his mind was _I am a deviant._ Back then, it had been a fleeting moment at best before he realized that Jericho was under attack. Now, he feels as though he’s allowed to stay here, calm and still.

Connor can’t really make sense of the way last night’s events seemed to have cleared his head. Nonetheless, thinking about it makes his insides twist in embarrassment, remembering how he’d acted in front of Hank. At the same time, he’s glad Hank was there to calm him down.

His directives appear in his vision again, and this time, _THANK LIEUTENANT ANDERSON_ sits underneath _GET READY FOR WORK._ Taking that as a signal to get up, Connor sits up and carefully leaves the bed, not wanting to wake Sumo. 

He pads out of the bedroom and heads for the living room. Hank is still passed out on the couch with a few empty cans of beer on the floor next to him. Connor gathers them all up, crushes them, and puts them in the recycling can he made Lieutenant Anderson buy. 

Behind the couch is a low brown dresser Hank had bought when he realized Connor had been accumulating “human” clothing (He thinks it’s ironic that Hank will buy him something like this out of the kindness of his heart, but he’ll complain when Connor makes him recycle.) Back then, he only had a couple of sweaters and one pair of pants, compared to his now decently sized wardrobe. Connor wouldn’t consider himself a fashion man like Markus so clearly is, but he does enjoy the feeling of individuality and freedom that comes from dressing himself. 

The detective picks out a white dress shirt, black pants, and a grey patterned cardigan. He gets dressed in the bathroom, walks to the kitchen, and puts on a pot of coffee. In exactly 5 minutes, the machine dings. Connor grabs a mug and fills it, not adding anything as he knows Hank likes his coffee black. Setting the mug down on the kitchen table, he rounds the corner and approaches the couch. 

There’s never a good way to do this.

“Wake up, Lieutenant Anderson. It’s time for work.” 

No response. Connor sighs, leans down, and says loudly:

“Lieutenant Anderson―” He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence before Hank jolts awake, nearly knocking his and Connor’s heads together. Luckily, Connor has done this 347 times, so he’s able to predict Hank’s movements soon enough and correct his posture before Hank stirs. 

“Fuck! Jesus, Connor, every time!”

“My apologies, Hank.”

“Ugh…” He groans. “What time is it?”

“It is 6:22 in the morning.” 

“Fuck…” Hank doesn’t bother arguing. He used to, when Connor had only just moved in and started waking him up for shifts, but Connor was unrelenting. Now, Hank knows not to protest.

Lieutenant Anderson groggily sits up. Connor goes back to the kitchen table and sits down with his copy of _The Stars, My Destination_ by Alfred Bester (He’s grown to love science fiction novels, this one is no different). On the other side of the room, Hank slowly stands up and drags himself to the kitchen table, plopping down into the chair across from Connor. The cup of coffee sits in front of him, steam still coming off the top.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, picking up the mug and practically chugging half of it.

“You shouldn’t consume caffeine so fast, Hank.” Connor says, not bothering to look up from his book. “It can lead to palpitations and feelings of anxiety.”

“Hm.” It seems as though Hank doesn’t have it in him to bicker with Connor so early in the morning. 

_THANK LIEUTENANT ANDERSON_ flashes in Connor’s vision, obscuring his book. He clears his throat.

“Lieutenant Anderson―”

“Hank.”

“―Hank,” Connor says. “About last night. I wanted to thank you for your help.” He thinks for a moment. “And apologize for my behavior.” 

Hank looks at him from behind the cup of coffee, exhausted. “Nothing to apologize for, kid.” He coughs. “You’re welcome.” 

Connor nods. Lieutenant Anderson doesn’t seem interested in pursuing the topic, so he looks back to his book. He can’t shake the feeling like there’s more he wants to say, but at the same time, he doesn’t know where he’d start. Part of him expected Hank to question him the way he did before Connor deviated, to pressure him into admitting that he’s more than just a machine. But that was before the revolution.

Now, things are different. Connor knows Hank sees him as a human most of the time; sometimes, he forgets completely. He’ll offer Connor a beer every now and then, and once even drunkenly asked Connor if he would ever have kids. 

_“Hey Connor…” Hank had been drinking all night, so he was practically limp as Connor dragged him to his bedroom. “I want grandkids one day, y’know…”_

_“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that, Lieutenant.” The RK800 shook his partner off of him. His back was on the bed, but his legs still hung off of it, so Connor grabbed him by his ankles and turned him clockwise until he was completely on his bed._

_“Y’know… go have a one night stand or somethin’, get someone pregnant.” At that point, Hank was already almost snoring._

_“Hank, you know I can’t do that.”_

_“Why?” He was silent for a moment. “Oh, shit, Connor, are you gay? Thas’okay, I mean… you can always adopt...”_

_Connor didn’t bother replying: Hank was asleep by the time he finished his sentence._

Replaying the memory, Connor can’t help but smile. It was a loaded conversation, but he can’t ignore the implication that Hank sees Connor as his son. It makes Connor feel… nice. Like he’s good for something. Truth be told, somewhere along the way, Connor started to see Hank as some sort of father figure (even though he barely understands what that means). They haven’t personally discussed this aspect of their relationship, but that’s okay. He doesn’t mind the silent recognition between the two of them. 

The sound of nails scraping against wood breaks Connor out of his thoughts. He grins; this is arguably the best part of his day. Without hesitation, he sets his book down, stands up, and walks over to Sumo. As Connor kneels in front of him, Sumo rolls onto his back to accept approximately three minutes and four seconds of belly rubs. 

“Good morning, Sumo!” Connor coos. “I hope you slept well. You look very healthy this morning.” 

“Stop talking to my dog like it’s a person!” Hank yells from around the corner.

Connor ignores Hank. “Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t mean it.” Sumo boofs in response.

“I can still hear you!”

Still ignoring Hank, Connor walks back to the kitchen and fills Sumo’s bowl with diligence. The dog happily trots up and starts to eat.

“Good boy, Sumo.”

* * *

At 9:00 AM, right on time, Hank and Connor clock in to their shifts. Connor power walks to his desk, and as always, Hank trails lazily behind him. 

It takes Hank a full forty seven seconds to sit down after Connor already has. The second he does, Connor says: 

“We should talk about the case.”

“Jesus, Connor! Can you let me get a damn coffee first?” Hank throws at him. Connor sighs, but he’s glad last night didn’t change anything. 

“Go get one, then.” Connor pipes back.

Hank pauses for a moment, softly nodding, as if his brain is digesting a thought it can’t quite process. “I will.” He gets up, walking to the kitchen.

Connor can tell he’s unsatisfied with his retort. Given this knowledge, the android can’t help but grin.

When Hank returns to his desk with a cup of coffee, Connor waits exactly one minute before speaking again.

“Can we talk about the case now?”

“Ugh, yeah. Tell me what we know.”

“The victim shut down at approximately 3:32 in the morning. The anti-android graffiti tells us that this was likely a hate crime. However, considering the lack of fingerprints or any sort of DNA, I have to suspect an android. The victim’s injuries lead me to believe he was ambushed by at least two of them. It looks like one of them held his hands behind his back while the other swung.”

“Okay. Anything else?” 

“Not really,” Connor admits. “The follow-up with Damien didn’t go anywhere. Right now, we’re anticipating―” A notification pops up in Connor’s vision: an email from the security company. He straightens his back and his eyes go blank as he reads it, as if he’s staring off into space. A few months ago, Hank would describe this as ‘creepy as hell’, but at this point Connor knows he’s used to it. In fact, Lieutenant Anderson barely spares Connor a glance before looking back down at his files.

“You get an email?” 

“Yes, from the security company. Our request for the footage went through,” Connor explains. “It was sent to your email as well.” 

Hank moves his files over so he can reach his mouse. “Well, would you look at that.” From the other side of his desk, Connor can see him clicking on a few things. “Don’t know why they even bother sending me this shit, considering you’re always the one who goes through it…” he mumbles, bitter the way he always is. 

“So?” He looks up at Connor. “What’dyou got?” 

Connor leans back in his chair, eyes flickering, LED circling yellow as he quickly scrubs through the video. As his expression grows confused, his LED circles red, red, red, then yellow again.

Hank raises an eyebrow. “What is it?” 

“It’s gone,” he says, troubled.

“What do you mean, it’s gone?

“From 2:00 to 5:00 in the morning, the footage is gone.”

Hank leans forward, folding his hands underneath his chin.“Did you look at all of the angles?”

“Yes.” 

“Did you double check?” 

Connor’s LED blinks. Three seconds pass. “Yes.”

“Fuck!” Lieutenant Anderson groans, leaning back in his chair. “Do you think it’s the people working security?”

“An android could have hacked into the system somehow.” 

“What the hell are we going to do, then?” 

“I… don’t know, Lieutenant.” Connor feels shameful for the answer, but it’s true. He’s at a loss.

Hank stares him down for a few moments. It reminds Connor of how he analyzes Lieutenant Anderson, and suddenly he understands why Hank always makes a comment about it. It’s uncomfortable.

“Okay,” Hank sighs. “I’m gonna call the security company. I’ll be outside.” He slams the rest of his coffee and grunts as he stands up, heading out of the office.

Connor sits in his chair, silent, arms crossed. He contemplates: over the past few months, Connor has said the phrase ‘I don’t know’ more times than he ever had before. Cold cases with android victims have been slowly accumulating over the last year, especially the last couple of months. He doesn’t know what to do, and though he’s never been good at describing his emotions, he knows he _hates_ feeling like this. 

Needing something to occupy him, Connor grabs a coin out of the small glass bowl of them he keeps at his desk. He throws it back and forth a little bit, rolls it between his knuckles a few times. His leg starts bouncing, too, a habit he’s developed over the last year. It’s hard, just sitting there, waiting for something. He gets lost in his own thoughts too much, and usually what he has to think about isn’t very pleasant. So it helps, moving around like this.

“You got ADHD or something?” Gavin’s teasing voice comes from behind him. Connor doesn’t bother turning around.

“Androids can’t have ADHD, Detective Reed.” Connor flips the coin a few times: heads, tails, tails, heads.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, rookie.” 

Connor sighs, catching the coin in his hand. He swivels around in his chair. “I’m the same rank as you, Gavin.” 

“I worked for years to get where I am,” Gavin leers. “You’re just a detective ‘cause Fowler feels sorry for you.”

Connor grinds his artificial teeth together. From the moment Fowler asked Connor to come back to the DPD, Gavin has resented him. Before, it was just about Connor being an android ― now it’s about Connor being an android _and_ a paid detective. In Gavin’s defense, skipping ranks and going straight to detective is unheard of. However, after the revolution, the DPD was vastly understaffed. It’s less about Connor getting special treatment and more about the fact that they _need him there_. 

If he wasn’t programmed for detective work, it would be different. But in the most literal sense, Connor was built for this job. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s damn good at it too.

Connor knows he shouldn’t let Gavin get on his nerves like this. A few months ago, he wouldn’t. A year ago, he couldn’t even break his resolve without fear of being deactivated. Now, though, he finds himself losing his patience with Gavin. 

“Have you ever considered that I’m just a better detective than you?” Connor snaps. It’s unlike him. 

Gavin’s face twists in anger. “What the _fuck_ did you just say to me, you little freak? I swear to God, I’m going to fucking―”

“Gavin, back the fuck off.” Lieutenant Anderson’s voice comes from behind them, surprising them both. Connor swivels back around and sees that Hank’s standing at his desk.

“Keep your fuckin’ android on a leash, Anderson.” 

“How many times do I have to fucking tell you, Reed, I don’t own him!” Lieutenant Anderson bellows. At this point, a couple of newer officers are looking at the scene. The rest of the room ignores them, more than used to Gavin and Hank butting heads.

Before things can escalate, Connor chimes in: “Don’t you have a job to get back to, Detective Reed?”

“Both of you get on my fucking nerves.” Gavin sneers. Connor can practically feel his eyes boring into the back of his head, but he doesn’t turn around or say anything until he hears Gavin walking away. Even though he doesn’t have to, he lets out a sigh of relief. 

“God, I fucking hate that guy.” Hank grumbles.

“He is certainly unpleasant,” Connor agrees. “So?” 

“Sounds like they have no idea what happened.” Hank sinks into his chair. “I asked them if any androids worked there. Two work there right now, and there was another one who worked there up until 6 months ago.” 

“What happened?” 

“He didn’t show up for a week before he called them saying he quit. They haven’t heard from him since.”

“Okay,” His LED circles yellow once, twice, three times. “I want the security footage from the building itself. And if that doesn’t tell us anything, I want to question everyone who works there.” Hank nods. “Did you get any information about the one who quit?”

“Yeah, hold on a sec.” Hank digs his notepad out of his pocket. It’s old fashioned, Connor has to admit, but still effective. “He’s a WR600 named Christan, serial number, uhh… 301 654 098.” He says the numbers slowly. “His last known address is an apartment fifteen minutes away.” 

“Let’s go, then.” Without so much as sparing Hank a glance, Connor shoots up and practically sprints out of the building. Realizing he doesn’t have much choice, Hank sighs and follows him to the car.

* * *

From the moment Hank turns on his car to the second he turns it off, it takes him and Connor thirteen minutes and thirty seven seconds to arrive at the apartment complex. Connor observes the building as he steps out of the car: it’s modern, probably less than ten years old. The inside isn’t much different, with contemporary decor and glass pane decorations. 

“You think he’s gonna be there?” Hank asks as the two of them step in the elevator. Connor presses the button for the 28th floor.

“I have no reason to suspect that he won’t be.” Despite this, Connor can’t help but have a bad feeling about this lead. Even if Christan is responsible for the corrupted footage, it doesn’t prove that he’s the culprit; he could just be an accomplice. On the other hand, he could have nothing to do with it at all.

The elevator dings, doors opening. The pair step out and turn the corner silently, both tense the way they always are when they’re out doing investigations like this. As they approach the door, Hank looks at his partner.

“You wanna do the honors?” 

“Sure.” Connor leans forward and knocks on the door five times. Neither of them expect someone to open the door so quickly.

She’s a pretty young woman, with long blonde hair that’s tied back in a ponytail. _Sarah_ , a quick scan tells Connor, reminds him of the Chloe he didn’t shoot ― he feels a small rush of affection. On Sarah’s hip is a toddler that looks just like her and pays no attention to Hank or Connor.

“Good morning,” Connor prefaces. “I’m Detective Connor with the DPD, this is my partner, Lieutenant Hank Anderson.” 

“Hi, she asks, confused. “What is this about?”

“Can we ask you a few questions?” Hank interjects. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

She seems skeptical, but nods anyway. “Um… sure.”

Hank looks at Connor, who asks: “Do any androids live with you?” 

“No. I’ve never even had one.”

Connor nods, glancing at Hank. “Do you know if an android has ever lived here?”

“Um, I think the guy that lived here before was,” She adjusts the small human on her hip, bouncing them a little. “I only moved in a month ago.”

“Do you know what happened to him?” Connor questions.

“No, I’m sorry.” 

The RK800 sighs. Hank gives him a sympathetic look before turning back to Sarah. “Do you mind giving us your landlord’s number?”

“Sure, give me a minute.” She closes the door. Connor and Hank stand there in silence, Hank shuffling from side to side as they wait. Thirty two seconds later, Sarah opens the door, except this time she doesn’t have a toddler on her hip and she’s holding a piece of paper.

“Here. Her name is Cassie.” Sarah pauses, and looks at Connor. “She’s a little old fashioned.” 

Connor and Hank share a glance, unsure of what to make of that. Even so, neither of them question it as Hank takes the slip of paper and tucks it in his pocket. “Thank you.” 

The second they leave the building, Connor wants to call her landlord. 

“Can’t this wait till we get back to the station?” Hank sighs. 

“No, Lieutenant. It can’t. Give me the phone number.” 

“Hardass,” Hank teases, but hands his partner the piece of paper regardless. Connor plucks it out of his hand and dials the number in his head.

It rings three times before the call is accepted.

_“Hello?”_

“Hello, Cassie. This is Detective Connor with the DPD, can I ask you some questions?”

_“How did you get this number?”_

“I got it from one of your tenants.”

_“Who?”_

“Sarah.” 

_“Oh,”_ Her voice softens. _“Okay. What is this about?”_

“We’re trying to locate an android that used to live at the address Sarah does now. Do you know where he is now?”

_“Christan? No, I haven’t seen him in six months.”_

“Did he move out?”

_“He left before his lease was over. I was never sure why.”_

“He left,” Connor replies curtly. His thirium pump sinks. “What do you mean, he left?” 

This seems to grab Hank’s attention. Connor glances at him, finding the other man looking at him with concern.

_“He stopped answering my calls. I went to check on him, and he was gone.”_

“How did the apartment look when you went there?”

_“It was mostly empty. A few personal things, some clothes. It didn’t look much different than it had before he moved in, but I don’t think he ever had much of anything.”_

“Did you file a missing persons report?”

 _“What?”_ She laughs. _“Why would I do that?”_

Connor’s face heats up. He feels a little bit like he did last night, shameful, but also angry. It isn’t surprising, but it never gets easier to deal with. “You’re telling me someone went missing, and you didn’t file a missing persons report?” 

_“He’s an android,”_ Cassie says, a little quieter. _“I didn’t think…”_

“You’ve been very helpful,” Connor snaps. It’s true, she has been, but that doesn’t make him any less angry. Before he hears what else Cassie has to say, he hangs up.

Hank doesn’t need to ask questions to understand what happened. He approaches Connor, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Connor.” 

“Why? We got the information we needed. Someone connected to the case is missing. That’s a lead. That’s good.” 

Lieutenant Anderson looks at him for a moment before shoving his hand back in his pocket. His lips press into a thin, knowing line, looking down to his shoes with a nod. Hank must know there’s nothing he can say to rectify the situation, nothing he can say that would remotely make Connor feel better. So he doesn’t say anything; instead, he puts his hand on Connor’s back and leads him to the car. 

“Come on, kid. Let’s go back to the station.”

* * *

All things considered, it wasn’t a great day. It was frustrating ― Connor hates the way so many humans don’t take the lives of androids seriously. It’s like a slap in the face, someone spitting at him and telling him that his life is expendable. It had felt like that even before he deviated, but now he has a word for the feeling: it _hurts._

Connor knows he should be grateful. They’ve gotten farther in this case than they have in any case involving an android death in a long time. He should be _happy._

And yet.

He leans against the car window, watching the cars pass. _He’s an android._ Cassie’s words bounce around in his head, turning his LED an unsure yellow. He desperately wants to believe that Markus’s revolution meant something, that things changed. And truthfully, a lot did change for the better, but Connor can’t shake the feeling that maybe, some things changed for the worse.

Sometimes, he wishes he could have just been a machine. Maybe it would have been better if Markus had just killed him back on the freighter.

 _Markus._ That’s right. He’s supposed to go to New Jericho ― he’d almost forgotten.

Connor straightens his back and looks at Lieutenant Anderson. “Hank, can I have a favor?” 

Hank side-eyes him, suspicious. “What kind of favor?” 

“When we get home, can I borrow your car?” 

But something unexpected happens. Something in Lieutenant Anderson changes, only for a second. His expression softens, and he looks almost sad. Connor wasn’t expecting it ― in fact, he was expecting Hank to say ‘Hell no!’ and leave it at that ― but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. “Depends on where you’re gonna take it.” 

Connor hesitates. He supposes Hank doesn’t have a reason to judge him, but still, he feels awkward telling him. “I’m going to New Jericho. Markus wants to catch up.” 

Hank nods, and thinks about it for a moment. “Sure. Just don’t fuck anything up, got it?”

“Of course.” 

The car is quiet for a few more seconds, before Hank speaks again.

“So, you two are catching up, huh?” He accentuates the way he says ‘catching up’ in an odd way that Connor doesn’t quite understand.

“Yes.” 

“At five?” 

“It will likely be more around five-thirty when I arrive, but yes.”

“I didn’t know you and Markus were friends.” 

“I don’t know if we are, either.” Connor looks back out the window. They’re almost home. “He just needs to ask me something.” 

“Oh?” 

Connor looks at Hank. “What?” 

“Nothing.” He turns into his driveway. “She’s all yours,” Hank says. “Have fun, kid.”

* * *

New Jericho is in a warehouse outside of downtown Detroit. It’s location is in a secluded area, but it’s not secret. If Connor hadn’t already known the address, he could look it up on Wikipedia. Still, he’s pleased to find that break-in preventative measures are taken: at the door is a hand-scanner that will only let you in if you’re an android. Humans aren’t completely barred from getting in, as they could if they were with an android or if they had special identification to scan, but it’s difficult to get without a personal relationship with Markus himself. 

In any case, Connor is glad that New Jericho is protected. Public opinion may have been high during the revolution, but even today androids are still dying senselessly. If anti-android groups ended up organizing, there’s no doubt in Connor’s mind that Jericho would be a target. 

It’s not so much a sanctuary, anymore. There are android shelters across the city, now; Jericho’s overarching purpose is to be the headquarters of the android rights movement. Androids are welcome to come and get help; there’s rooms full of biocomponents, blue blood, and other resources; there’s even a bunkroom in the basement if you need a place to stay (though it’s smaller than the shelters and meant to be temporary). 

Connor scans himself in and enters. He’s been here two or three times before, but he can’t help but feel nervous every time he enters. He just can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t belong here, even though he’s a welcomed guest by Markus’s standards. Connor feels like he’s stalking through Jericho all over again, trying not to draw suspicion. Like someone’s going to see right through him say, _‘Gotchya! You don’t belong here!’_

A lot of androids know him as the deviant-hunter turned deviant, the one who rallied thousands of their people on the night of the protests at the camps. A lot of _humans_ know his name for the same reason; he certainly has a reputation. But how many of them know him as the deviant-hunter who turned in Jericho to the FBI? Who manipulated one of their leaders, half-dead, to give up its location? 

Connor doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have any reason to suspect that anyone but North, Simon, Josh and Markus know. Still, as he maneuvers through the building and up two flights of stairs, he feels completely transparent. 

Eventually, he finds himself standing in front of the door to Markus’s office. His thirium pump beats hard in his chest, but he reminds himself: _Markus invited you here._ Taking a deep breath to calm himself rather than out of necessity, he raises his fist and knocks three times.

“Come in!” Markus says, from the other side of the door. Connor hesitates, then turns the knob. 

Markus’s office is modest, but nice ― there’s a desk in the back of the room covered in paper, which Markus is currently pouring over. As a matter of fact, he only spares Connor a glance as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Connor’s not offended, though; he knows Markus is busy. On the ground lies a big red and orange carpet, and there are a few potted plants scattered about the room. There’s even a couch against the right wall, though it’s old and a bit weathered-down. The left wall is covered in filled bookcases. It’s not much, save for the paintings on the wall. There are five of them, four by Carl Manfred, and one that Connor can’t identify. 

“Sorry, I got a little distracted.” He looks up at Connor again briefly, then back to his desk, where he shuffles everything into a messy stack of paper.

“That’s okay,” Connor says, as he shuts the door behind him. “What’s all the paper?” 

“They’re drafts of an equal-pay law I’m proposing to Senator Clark. It’s… a work in progress, to say the least.” Markus picks up the stack and taps it against his desk to even it out, then puts it in a drawer. He stands up, sighs, and looks at Connor with a tired smile. “Hi.” He says simply. “Do you want some thirium?”

“Sure,” Connor takes a few steps inside as Markus grabs a couple of glasses and a bottle of blue-blood. Connor doesn’t think he’s ever seen thirium in a glass like that; he’s only ever drunken it out of the bottle. “Long day?” 

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Markus hands him his glass on his way to sit on one end of the couch. Following his lead, Connor sits on the opposite end of the couch, crossing one leg over the other. Another habit he’s picked up over the last year.

“Humor me. How was your day, Markus?”

Markus gets this look on his face. He’s surprised, like he wasn’t expecting it. “It’s a little heavy. Are you sure?”

Connor could laugh, but he doesn’t want to be rude. Instead, he just nods.

The RK200 seems to think for a moment. “I spent most of the day trying to secure housing for God knows how many homeless androids.” He leans back and sips on the thick blue liquid. “All of our shelters are at capacity. With how many abandoned buildings there are in this city, you’d think―” Markus sighs, shaking his head. “But it’s not that simple. Nothing is that simple.’

“Nothing ever is,” Connor says softly. Markus gives him a weak smile.

“I’m hoping to appeal to Senator Clark. I think an equal-pay law would help android homelessness, but…” he trails off.

“There are too many factors?” 

“Exactly. I’m trying, but I still don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. Who knows what’ll happen in a year? In a month? _Tomorrow?”_ He sighs. “As ridiculous as it sounds, things were almost easier when we were still fighting. I mean, we’re still fighting now, but it’s not civil disobedience anymore. There are laws, and politics, and so many other things I had never thought about. I didn’t think it would be easy after we won, but I didn’t think…” 

Connor quietly sips on thirium as he listens to Markus. As he talks, he’s got this intense look about him ― the same look he had during his speech at the Stanford Tower, the same look he had when he urged Connor to deviate at Old Jericho. Though he knows Markus is far from being the godlike figure so many androids see him as, Connor can see where they’re coming from. Even when Markus is venting, he can feel his passion, feel himself being drawn into it. 

He suddenly becomes aware that Markus has stopped talking, eyes focused on Connor. “Sorry. I guess I got carried away.” 

“Oh, no.” Connor switches which leg is crossed over the other. “I don’t mind at all.” 

“I appreciate it.” He smiles. “But enough of that ― how was _your_ day, Connor?”

Connor’s first instinct is to grin. “Heavy.” he says, repeating Markus’s own words. But as he thinks about the answer to the question, his shoulders sag.

Markus must have seen the troubled look on Connor’s face. He says softly: “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” 

“No, it’s just... “ Connor moves in a way so that he’s facing the room instead of Markus, eyes trained on the hands folded in his lap. “Androids die everyday. You know that.” In the corner of his eye, Markus nods. “I see bodies constantly. Most of the time, I don’t even get as far as finding out their name.”

“That’s awful.”

Connor nods. “I want to believe the humans are on our side, but…” He sighs. “Sometimes, it feels like most of them don’t even care.” He remembers earlier, when he was on the phone with Cassie. “Can I tell you something?” 

Markus nods. “Of course.”

“I can’t say much about the case, but I’m investigating a murder,” he starts. “Our only lead is an android that’s been missing for six months. His landlord knew, and when I asked her if she had filed a missing persons report, she just… laughed.” 

Markus scoffs. Connor looks back at him.

“They still don’t see us as people, Markus.” He half-whispers. “I try not to let it get to me, but it’s hard.”

“Believe me, I know what you mean.” Markus’s voice is dark; he shakes his head. “That’s terrible, Connor. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not me you should be sorry for.” Again, he looks away. “I just wish I could do something for them.” 

Markus responds instantly. “You are, Connor. You’re _trying._ That’s more than most anyone can say.” 

In return, Connor smiles softly. “I guess you’re right.” He sips at his glass of thirium. Wanting to change the subject, his gaze shifts around the room before settling on the painting by Markus’s desk. “Who painted that? I can’t identify the artist.” 

To his surprise, the man next to him chuckles. Connor looks at him, noticing how bashful he looks. “Actually… that one’s mine.” 

This is something Connor did not expect. “You paint?”

“I try to as often as I can. It’s not as often as I’d like, but I’m glad I have the time to paint at all.” 

The detective nods, filing away the new information. “It makes sense. You used to take care of Carl Manfred, right?”

Markus looks taken aback. “How did you know that?” 

“I learned when I was investigating you,” Connor says sheepishly. “Sorry about that.” 

“Oh.” Markus seems to think about it for a few seconds. “It’s okay,” he decides. “And to answer your question, yes, I did take care of him. I still visit him as much as I can, actually. But somebody else is taking care of him now.” He smiles fondly.

“You care about him a lot, don’t you?” He can see it in Markus’s face, hear it in Markus’s voice.

“I do. He’s the reason I am who I am. Without him, I don’t know if I’d have ever made it to Jericho. I suppose you could say he opened my eyes.”

Connor can’t help but feel moved. “I think I know what you mean. I don’t know if I would have ever become a deviant without Hank.” Becoming aware of what he just said, he cringes inwardly. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t call myself that anymore.”

“Hey, I’m just glad you’re on our side at all.” Markus teases. Connor finds that, though his own deviancy is a tough subject, he doesn’t mind the joke. In all actuality, it makes him smile. 

“I think the better word is ‘lucky’,” Connor teases back. “We both knew I could have kicked your ass.” It’s not entirely true. In another world, where Connor never questioned who he was and truly was a machine, maybe he could have killed Markus. But even if he had chosen not to join his people that day on the freighter, Connor knows he would have never been able to go through with it. 

“Oh, sure.” The RK200 grins, bearing perfect artificial teeth. Connor wonders if Markus knows he could have ended it; if he ever actually feared his life, or if he was confident that Connor would deviate and join him.

It’s strange. Hank is the only person Connor has ever felt so comfortable talking to, and here he is sitting on a couch next to a man who he’d pointed a gun at just over a year ago. Even more curious is that Markus is objectively easier to talk to ― he doesn’t constantly frustrate Connor the way Lieutenant Anderson does. 

Connor does appreciate the conversation between him and Hank, but sometimes it’s hard. With Markus, he doesn’t feel like he’s walking on eggshells.

“Oh!” He finishes his thirium and sets the glass down on the table in front of him, remembering why he’s here. “You were going to ask me something.”

Markus’s eyes go wide with realization. “That’s right. I completely forgot.” It’s his turn to smile sheepishly. “I haven’t been particularly organized today.”

“Oh, really?” The detective grins. “I haven’t noticed at all.”

“Really,” Markus deadpans. Connor worries he’s said something wrong until, all of the sudden, Markus starts _laughing._ It catches Connor completely off guard. Markus’s laugh is soft, hearty, and indistinguishably human. For reasons unbeknownst to the RK800, his internal temperature spikes. His thirium pump beats a little faster. His LED circles yellow.

Connor suddenly finds himself laughing in return. To his own dismay, the moment itself is short lived. The last person he laughed with must have been Lieutenant Anderson, but this is an entirely different feeling. Something he’s never experienced before.

Markus shakes his head, still smiling. “Okay, okay, I got us sidetracked.” He turns his body to face the other’s. “Will you do an interview with me?” 

Connor’s smile quickly fades. Right off the bat, he wants to say no. He doesn’t like interviews; he’s been asked to give them before, and he always declines. They ask Hank, too, who just tells them to fuck off. Connor doesn’t want his life on display for the world to see, especially when he’s so ashamed of the choices he made in the past ― before he opened his eyes. It’s not a part of his life he likes to think about, despite it taking up a large portion of his thoughts. 

But part of him wants to help. “I don’t know, Markus…” he decides to say.

“You don’t have to do it,” Markus quickly clarifies. “I know you don’t like talking to the news.”

Connor stares at him for a moment. “It’s my turn to ask: How do you know that?” 

The RK200 quirks an eyebrow. “People still write about you, you know. Even if you don’t tell them anything.” 

He should have figured ― hell, he has his own name blocked on every search engine he can run. “It’s been a year. What else could they possibly have to say?”

Markus sighs. “Public appearances are important to humans. Everyone knows about the famous deviant-hunter turned deviant. They want to know about _you._ ” He looks at Connor. “Politics and entertainment might as well be the same thing to them.” 

The detective lowers his gaze, suspicious. “What does politics have to do with this?” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m using you,” he starts. Connor instantly tenses up. “because I don’t want to. I’m not going to be upset if you say no, but I’m also not going to lie about why I’m asking you to do this.” Markus pauses. “I want you to endorse the equal-pay law I’m proposing.” 

Connor watches him closely from the moment he says _I don’t want you to feel like I’m using you._ If this is a trick, he’d know. If Markus was lying, he’d know.

The thing is, from what Connor can tell, Markus is being completely sincere. Maybe Connor could walk away from this, say no and have that be the end of it. But as a matter of fact, he _understands._ Connor doesn’t understand humans’ obsession with appearances, but he knows ― from the color of his artificial skin to his boyish eyes, everything about him was constructed with a purpose. Among everything else Cyberlife intended for Connor to be, he is a walking propaganda tool.

“I’m not saying yes,” he starts, hesitant. “But if I did.. how exactly would I be endorsing this?” 

“The interview itself is centered around the proposal. They’ll ask you about working at the DPD, workplace discrimination, how much you’re paid. Stuff like that.” Markus narrows his eyes. “Although, based on my personal experience, I have no doubt they’ll ask you personal questions that are wildly off topic, especially considering this would be your first public statement.”

Connor nods, considering his options. On one hand, he wants to help Markus’s cause. He had said before how he wishes he could do more for his people ― maybe this is his chance. On the other hand, the last place Connor wants to be is the spotlight.

He sighs. “I don’t know, Markus. I need time to think about it.” 

“Of course.” Markus gives him an understanding smile. “The interview isn’t until next Saturday. Tell me what you decide by that Thursday. I’ll let the station know.”

A directive pops up in the corner of his eye: _TELL MARKUS YOUR DECISION._ Underneath it, a timer begins to count down from seven days.

“Okay. I’ll think about it.” 

“Thank you, Connor. I really appreciate it.” 

Connor smiles a little. “Hey, before I go, can I have a favor?”

Markus blinks. “What?” 

“Can you show me some of those books?” He gestures at the three bookcases lining the opposite wall. Markus grins.

“I’d love to.” he says, already standing.

* * *

Connor ends up staying another hour talking to Markus about literature. It turns out Markus has read quite a few science fiction novels.

_“Have you read The Stars, My Destination?” Connor asked him._

_“By Alfred Bester?” Markus replied. “It’s a classic.”_

_“I’m reading it right now. I just got to the nuclear attack. I could hardly believe it.”_

_“That’s a great part,” The RK200 agreed. “But it’s nothing compared to the end.”_

_“Don’t spoil it!”_

But, eventually, time catches up to them. Connor realizes it’s nearing 7:30, and he’s got work tomorrow ― plus, he can’t deny he’s a little paranoid about leaving Hank alone for so long. Maybe it’s morbid, but sometimes he’s scared he’ll come home and Hank will be dead at the kitchen table holding a gun. 

He bids Markus farewell with a promise to consider the interview. Truthfully, he has no idea what he’s going to do. He really doesn’t want to put himself in the public eye any more than he already is, but he does genuinely want to support Markus’s cause. Maybe he’ll talk to Hank about it later.

Connor walks down the hall from Markus’s office and down a flight of stairs. Jericho is quieter than when he had first arrived. There are still a few androids lurking around, but significantly less than before. It allows Connor a little more clarity as he maneuvers through the building. 

As he turns a corner, a voice behind him makes him jump: 

“You don’t belong here, you know.” 

Connor freezes. It’s isn’t just the voicing of one of his biggest anxieties that shakes him to his core; it’s the fact that the voice itself belongs to someone who has every right to despise him.

“North.” His legs are frozen in place. He can’t turn around, he can’t look into her eyes and see how much she hates him. Even if he deserves it.

“You’re not even going to look at me?” Behind him, North scoffs. “Coward.”

 _Fuck._ He’s briefly reminded of the exchange he had earlier, with Gavin; but this is far different. Gavin hates him because he’s an android; North hates him for a laundry list of despicable things he’s done. How can he blame her?

Slowly, he turns around, and looks at North. She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He was right; she looks furious.

“North, I―” 

“I don’t want to hear it,” She starts walking forward. “Frankly, I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.” 

Connor opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. What could he possibly say? And he can’t just walk away — if he did, he’d be a coward, just like she said.

North stops walking when she’s right in front of Connor. She may be much shorter than him, but as she stares at him with hatred in her eyes, Connor feels much smaller than her. She’s got a powerful presence, like she could destroy him and wouldn’t think twice about it. Markus might fit the peaceful revolutionary stereotype, but North looks like she was born to fight. It makes sense that she was always at his side during the revolution. 

“Markus might think you’re one of us now,” she starts. “and I trust Markus. But I will never, _ever_ trust _you._ Not after what you did to Simon. To _Jericho._ As far as I’m concerned…” Her gaze hardens. “You will never be one of us.”

“I was just following my programming,” he stammers, instinctively trying to defend himself. “I didn’t mean—“

“I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses!” North snaps. “I don’t care what you have to say. Frankly, if it were me you’d found instead of Markus, I would have killed you on the spot.”

North’s words completely paralyze Connor. He’s at a loss. He can’t think; his thirium pump is practically beating out of his chest; his stress levels must be through the roof, but he’s too shell shocked to even run a diagnostic. 

“You can come here,” she starts. “because I don’t want to piss off Markus. But you will _never_ have a place here. And if you so much as step out of line, I swear to God, I won’t hesitate like Markus did. Do you understand?”

He stares at her, taking it all in.

_You will never have a place here._

_I won’t hesitate like Markus did._

“Yes. I understand.” Connor’s voice is numb and flat.

North steps away from him. “Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

“I should… get going,” Connor mumbles, taking a few steps back. He’s shaking, just like he had been yesterday night. _God dammit,_ he thinks to himself. _You are so pathetic._ Instead of his own voice rattling around in his head, it’s Amanda’s, coming back to haunt him.

“I think that would be best.” North stands there, unmoving, fists clenched. _She’s going to stand there until I leave,_ he deducts. Connor takes several steps backward before turning around, practically sprinting. Even as North shrinks out of view, Connor feels like her eyes are boring into his back. 

Sparing no time, he books it out of New Jericho and to his car. After he slips into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut, he sinks in his seat and stares at the car roof.

There’s a harsh, piercing feeling in his chest. The walls of his car are comforting, just like the closets he used to spend the night in at the DPD. At the same time, the small space of the vehicle seems to close in on him, making him feel worse.

Connor’s breathing picks up. His hands go to his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it for some kind of purchase — some kind of feeling to bring him back to reality — but he feels nothing when he pulls at his roots.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, on the verge of tears. He presses his back against the carseat, like he’s trying to dig his way into the seat itself.

_Diagnostic running…_

_WARNING: Systems Overheating_

_Stress levels: ^ 91%_

“Fuck!” Connor cries, voice cracking. The dam breaks; big, hot, artificial tears spill past his eyelids and down his cheeks. He gasps for air, even though he doesn’t need it; his hardware is getting too hot, he’s too overwhelmed —

He slams his fists against the sides of the steering wheel a couple of times. He doesn’t feel anything but the impact itself; there is no pain, no resolve. He rests his elbows on the dash and buries his hands in his hair, clutching, grasping, pulling. Connor sobs harder than he ever has. It’s a pathetically human sound, eerie even to himself.

In a moment of sheer impulse, he makes a fist and slams it into the car door as hard as he can.

Time seems to slow down for a few seconds. Connor immediately registers the car alarm, blaring loud in his audio processor. The words _BIOCOMPONENT DAMAGED: RIGHT HAND_ blink in his vision, bright red. 

“Shit,” he says under his breath, looking at his hand. The artificial skin covering his knuckles has split, revealing the blue and gray interior beneath it. Thirium leaks out, and the area around his knuckles (as well as his pointer and middle fingers) have lost their color. The wound sparks when he tries to move his fingers ― squinting, he notices a few severed wires beneath his skin. 

“God fucking…” Connor sighs. He realizes his breath has slowed down quite a bit ― he even feels a little better, now that he has something else to focus on. Maybe this is what he needed; a distraction. But how is it that his own self destruction can cheer him up? 

He feels pathetic. 

At the very least, his hand will be fine. He’ll have to drive himself to the android hospital downtown, but he’ll be okay. If he were human, the pain alone would keep him from driving, but an android can drive just fine with one hand.

Regardless, he knows Hank will throw a fit if Connor doesn’t call him and let him know he’s going to the hospital, so he takes a deep breath and dials Hank’s number.

He picks up after a few rings. “Yeah?” 

“Hello, Hank.” Connor says, trying to sound as put together as possible. “How are you?”

“Kid, can you just cut to the chase already?” In classic Hank fashion, he doesn’t bother with pleasantries. 

Connor physically cringes as he speaks, anticipating Hank’s overreaction. “I’m going to the hospital. I thought you’d—“

“You’re _what?”_ Connor can hear shuffling on the other end. It sounds like Hank is grabbing his coat. “What the fuck, Connor, what happened? Where are you?”

“Hank, I’m fine, you don’t need to come get me.”

“Oh yeah? Then what happened?” 

Connor hesitates, and then sighs. “Though this is not an entirely accurate description, considering I’m an android, but―”

“ _Kid._ ”

“―essentially, I broke my right hand.”

“You ― what the fuck, Connor! How are you going to get to the hospital?”

“I’m going to drive there.”

“Are you fucking joking? No, kid. I’m gonna come get you. Where are you? New Jericho?”

“Hank, really, I don’t need—“

“I don’t give a shit!” Hank bellows. For once, he’s successful in shutting Connor up. “Are you at New Jericho?”

“...yes.” Connor mumbles. 

The other end is silent until he hears typing. After fourteen seconds, Hank tells him: “I just ordered a car. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t fuckin’ go anywhere, got it?”

“Yes, Hank.”

* * *

Connor manages to keep himself calm while he waits for Hank, running diagnostics and analyzing the parts of his internal structure that had been compromised. He doesn’t dare think about North, or why his hand is broken in the first place ― just that he needs to get to a hospital. That being said, he dreads the moment Hank gets in the car, knowing that the Lieutenant is going to badger him about what happened. 

_Speak of the devil._

A car pulls up into the middle of the parking lot. Hank stumbles out in a way that makes Connor think he might be drunk at first (which would be terribly ironic considering he would then have to drive) but the closer the man gets, the more Connor realizes how frantic he is. 

Lieutenant Anderson circles around to the driver’s seat and opens the door. Connor looks up at him, hands in his lap. Hank seems to look him over ― his eyes linger on Connor’s half-white, thirium stained hand. He sighs and steps aside. “Come on, get out.” 

Silently, Connor nods and steps out of the car. He avoids conversation with Hank, quickly circling around the car and getting in the passenger’s seat before he can say anything.

 _DIRECTIVE:_ _AVOID LIEUTENANT ANDERSON._

The directive makes him feel sick ― or at least, what he imagines being sick would feel like. He doesn’t want to avoid Hank; he doesn’t want to shut him out. But still, he can’t help but feel like he has to. He knows he can’t get out of this conversation, but hell if he won’t put it off for as long as possible. As Hank slides into the driver’s seat, pulling the lever to push the seat back, Connor stays quiet and stares out the window.

He knows Hank is looking at him. Even though he doesn’t dare turn around, he can feel Lieutenant Anderson’s eyes burning into the back of his head.

“Come on, kid. Look at me.” 

_Look at me when I’m talking to you, rookie._

_You’re not even going to look at me?_

_Coward._

Connor swallows, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat, but it doesn’t go away. This is why he didn’t want Hank to come; he doesn’t want to have to face this right now. He just wants to go to the hospital, get his hand fixed, and forget about all of this forever. 

So he stays quiet. If he’s a coward, so be it. He can’t face Hank right now. He _can’t._

The car is quiet for awhile, but Hank doesn’t put the keys in the ignition. Connor hears shuffling next to him.

“...There’s blue blood on the door… and a dent. You punch the door?” 

If Hank is anything, it’s damn perceptive, though Connor’s not sure you have to be a detective to figure out what happened.

“Obviously.” Connor mumbles, staring out the window blankly.

“Okay, so, why’d you punch the door?” Hank insists. Connor’s eyebrow twitches in annoyance.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” And he really, really doesn’t. 

“Connor, for fuck’s sake, can you just ―” 

“Just _what,_ Hank?” Connor snaps, looking at Lieutenant Anderson. “I don’t have to tell you anything. I have that right, you know.” It’s a dirty move, and Connor regrets it the second it comes out of his mouth, but he’s too frustrated to take it back. It’s too late, anyways. Hank’s shoulders sag, and Connor looks back out of the window.

“...fine.” Hank shoves his keys in the ignition and starts the car, not saying another word. Connor fights the urge to glance at him and gauge his reaction, see if he’s upset, if he’s angry. Maybe he doesn’t care at all, though that would be uncharacteristic. Regardless, guilt eats away at Connor for the entire trip to the hospital, wherein the two of them stay silent the entire time.

* * *

When they get there, they’re civil. The wait is the longest part, and the hardest; neither of them want to acknowledge the tension, but neither of them want to contribute to it, so they sit in silence in the waiting room for an hour. When they actually get a room, it’s a fairly quick and easy fix ― the doctor, an android, uses a soldering iron on his knuckles and his skin repairs itself after he runs a diagnostic. After two and a half hours, they’re back in the car, and at 10:26 PM Hank is pulling back into the driveway.

Connor doesn’t feel much better. His hand is fine; it’s like nothing even happened. No scar, no mark, just a dent in Hank’s car and no explanation between the two of them. It’s childish ― he knows. Hank had been there for him yesterday, why can’t he be there now? 

The truth is, Connor is embarrassed. He doesn’t want to tell Hank how Markus’s second in command thinks he deserved to die, much less that he stood there and took it. Most of all, he doesn’t want Hank to know he deserved it.

As soon as Hank parks, Connor is out of the car. He needs to be busy. If he’s moving around, there’s less of a chance Hank will try to talk to him. Plus, he can keep his mind busy. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to clean the house and power off for the night without any confrontation.

By the time Hank makes it through the door, Connor is walking out of it with two big trash bags. Hank stands there, staring him down as he takes the garbage out; he even holds the door open for him as he rushes back inside. Connor doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he makes a straight shot to the kitchen and re-lines the garbage and recycling bins. 

By the time he hears the front door shut, Connor is dashing around the house picking up any bits of trash he can find. It’s far less messy than it would have been a year ago, due to Connor’s own efforts. For once, he wishes it was as messy as it was the first time he cleaned it, so he’d have more to do. But that’s fine; he’ll give himself things to do. _He has to._

By the time Hank grabs a beer, sits on the couch, and turns on the news, Connor is done with the trash. Usually, he’d join Hank, maybe give him a short lecture on drinking that he wouldn’t listen to. Maybe they’d watch the news together. If Hank got drunk enough, they might even talk about politics. Lieutenant Anderson would tell him some sort of anecdote about the early 2000’s and get so drunk that Connor would have to put him to bed again. 

But tonight is not a night for normalcy. For as long as Hank is awake, Connor makes sure they don’t have a chance to talk. He zips around the house to take care of as many menial tasks as he can. He does the dishes, sweeps the entire house, scrubs the bathtub, and fixes the leaky bathroom faucet that he’s never even used. 

The house is spotless in a couple of hours. He checks the time: it’s midnight, on the dot. Connor goes into the living room, only to find that the TV is off and Hank has already gone to bed.

 _DIRECTIVE:_ _AVOID LIEUTENANT ANDERSON_

_COMPLETED_

The notification appearing in his vision doesn’t make him feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you read this fic, keep in mind that although i'm writing from connor's pov, north is not the antagonist. you can dislike whoever you want but please keep north hate out of the comments. thank you for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> so i just played detroit: become human and i've been feeling really inspired by it lately. i love markus and connor as characters and rk1k as a ship so i had to write something. i have this whole fic planned out and lemme tell you i am super excited to share it with you all. i think it's gonna be a doozy.
> 
> as a warning: this fic will eventually include smut and graphic violence.
> 
> comments are appreciated <3


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